


The T-Shirt

by LipstickAndWhiskey (CopperMarigolds)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Drunkenness, F/M, Fluff, Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:25:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7844884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperMarigolds/pseuds/LipstickAndWhiskey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a t-shirt isn’t just a t-shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one came out of nowhere. Hope you like!

It was silly, really. Childish.

You kept it in the bottom of your rucksack, next to the hairdryer that you rarely had time to use. It was worn and soft, run through the wash countless times. The dark grey faded to a lighter shade, small holes formed from use. You only pulled it out on special occasions, on those tougher restless nights you spent alone.

Tonight was one of those nights.

You pulled it on, always amazed at how large it was and how it hung loosely on your frame. Running your hands down the length of the soft cotton, thoughts of the tall man popped into your head. He was like the shirt- he’d been around for a long time and even after all he went through, he still managed to be soft and strong.

The old motel bed creaked as you settled down on top of it, sitting on the edge.

Tonight would be a year since you left.

You couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t be so close to him, but not be with him. You never told him about your feelings towards him. Never dared take that blind leap. It would ruin everything if he didn’t want you back the way you wanted him.

You took the cowardly way out, leaving in the dark of the night in a stolen car. All you left behind was a note that said _“I had to go”_ , a phone number, and your heart.

You had several ‘missed call’ notifications on your phone, and an untouched queue of voicemails. After you figured out they wouldn’t stop calling, you sent a text that read _“I’m okay. I promise.”_ All you got back was a text from Sam saying _“You need us, all you have to do is call. Promise me?”_ You promised, knowing that you would call if things really went south.

Sitting there, you felt numb. Numb to all those feelings that you’d felt for so long now. You’d cried yourself to sleep the first night you left. It was like that for weeks, until you couldn’t cry anymore.

Now all you felt was that same old ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how much time went by.

No matter how many tears you cried.

No matter how many other guys you kissed.

No matter how much you wanted to curse him for being such a good person.

No matter.

Clutching the fabric at your chest, you brought the fistful up to your nose. Though the scent of him had long ago been washed out, as you closed your eyes you could still smell him. The soft scent of old spice and that particular smell that was just _Sam_. Sometimes he smelled a little different, depending on the shampoo he was using. It made you huff out a laugh, remembering when he ran out of shampoo and had to use your coconut scented stuff. He smelled like a piña colada for weeks.

He lent you the shirt one day after a hard hunt that left you without a clean top. From that day on, you kept it in your bag. You weren’t sure if he knew you kept it, or if he even realized it was gone. Maybe he even knew you had it, but kept quiet about it. All you knew was it was the only piece you had of him.

Laying back on the bed, you stared at the ugly mirrored ceiling that you knew Dean would just chuckle at. Sam would roll his eyes at him, too.

You missed them. You even missed Baby.

You missed sitting behind the brothers, listening to them bicker over stupid stuff.

You missed laying on the back seat, falling asleep to the hum of the engine, classic rock playing low, and the soft murmurs of the boys chatting to each other.

You would lean over the back of the bench seat, and tell Sam a stupid joke to get him to laugh. Usually the jokes that made him laugh the hardest were at Dean’s expense. When he laughed though, it was like pure golden sunshine. His grin would brighten his face, dimpling at the corners of his smile. His smile could get the iciest of people to spill their secrets, and they would do it while smiling right back. The women especially.

You thought about going back. Maybe you could just go back and hunt with them, ignoring the nagging pain in your chest. Like that would be any better than what you were doing now. Laying there, wondering what he was doing. If he missed you even a fraction of how much you missed him.

If you went back, something had to change.

Your phone vibrated, lighting up bright blue in the darkness of the room. Without looking at the caller id, you picked up the call.

“Hello?” You asked, waiting to find out who wanted what at this time of night.

“Why did you leave?” Asked a familiar voice. It was low and slurred, as if he’d been drinking for awhile.

_“Sam?”_

“I just need to know what- what- what I done. Did… What I did. Just tell me, please?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes we forget to say things, for later may be too late. Sometimes things turn out differently than we think, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a long time coming, and I hope you enjoy it. This one is from Sam’s point of view, and there is gonna be a part three at some point in the future.

Rough hunts were not uncommon for the brothers. Throughout their lives, they’d had more than their fair share.

Sam though- he’d had one of the worst that night. Much like that night one year ago.

One year. He could’ve sworn it felt far longer than that. He spent the first few hours honest to god freaking the fuck out as all his calls to your cell dumped him straight to voicemail. Your cheery recorded voice mocked him, encouraging him to leave a message after the beep.

He left several of those.

As time passed and you’d responded via text, he’d calmed down. The stabbing pain in his heart ripped at him though, telling him that you had to do what was best for you. You’d had to go, and he couldn’t have done anything to stop it.

Or at least that’s what he told himself.

He told himself for so long that he was a destroyer of things. That he tainted everything he touched. He didn’t have the best track record with people he loved, especially the women in his life.

Now though, he allowed himself to want things. To want to have a relationship- someone who was in the life and understood. Someone who he could hunt side by side with besides his brother. Someone like you.

You were the brightest part of his day. Always quick with a joke and so damn intuitive. You could ferret out liars like a bloodhound and comfort victims like no other. You were good, kind, giving, and absolutely stunning. You sang along to Dean’s old tapes, and always asked for a cheese danish whenever the three of you stopped for gas.

He wasn’t sure what it was about this particular hunt, but it got to him. So much so that he was halfway through a bottle of Johnnie Walker before he found himself crying in the kitchen. The bunker was silent except for his sniffling, his hand clenching a lone cheese danish in his hand.

Your influence still lingered in his life, your love of danishes rubbing off on Dean. He’d bought a pack on a whim just a week ago, the allure of pastry too great for him to pass up. And here Sam stood, one individually wrapped goodie in his hand as he wobbled in place.

This wasn’t the first time he’d encountered something that reminded him of you, either. He felt like he saw you in everything. He saw you in the flimsy coffee cups he used every morning, knowing that if you were there, you’d doodle on all three cups. Some days it would be in black sharpie, others in blue pen.

He saw you in the power ballads Dean played in the impala, singing along under your breath in the backseat. He was sure you had a pretty voice, just the soft notes hinting at how wonderful it was.

He even saw you in that one flannel that he seemed to wear constantly these days. You’d forgotten to pack an extra sleep shirt on one hunt, and he’d gallantly offered up a flannel. He was afraid at the time of being too eager to get you in one of his shirts rather than Dean’s, but you’d smiled sweetly at him anyway, changing in the small motel bathroom. You came out and all of the air stilled in his lungs. You’d rolled the sleeves up to free your hands, and the massive amount of fabric looked much like a dress on your smaller frame. The hem hit about mid-thigh and all he could do was wonder what you had on underneath.

He did not get much sleep that night.

He looked down at that same shirt he was wearing in the dark light of his room, the bottle of liquor and the cheese danish abandoned on the counter in the kitchen. He sat on his too-soft bed, staring at the cell phone in his hand and your name staring up at him.

It’d been awhile since he’d texted you, let alone called. And he desperately wanted to hear your voice, even if it was a recording. He was drunk, his mind unable to focus on anything other than ‘ _I miss her’_  and the heartbreak of having you disappear from his life. The girl he thought he could truly love.

He didn’t remember anything other than the sound of your tired voice over the line, didn’t register any of the sad heartache that he let slip over the receiver. Didn’t remember much of the comfort you tried to give him over the phone, or the way your voice wobbled and trembled each time he let something slip from his lips.

All he remembered was you talking to him. Your lilting voice. Wordless sounds.

He looked at his phone, the light of it stabbing at his hangover headache.

There, typed in neat arial font was your name and ‘Blue Swallow Motel. Akers, Missouri. Room 7. You know the knock.’


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam shows up at the motel, and reader has some questions she needs answered in regards to his drunk phone call.

([x](https://tmblr.co/ZMY7jf2HbFHTt))

Your heart thuds in your chest, blood pounding in your ears. You can’t believe what you heard. You knew it was a bad idea to pick up the phone, the ache that his voice left in your heart too much to handle. The ache that settled further into your chest upon hearing him was worse than you’d expected- his admission spoken in slurred syllables was your breaking point. You had to look him in the eye and say what you needed to say- what you should have said long ago before it’d gotten this bad.

You pace the room, fifteen paces from end to end, counting as you go. It focuses your racing mind only a fraction, so you turn to the only thing that can truly clear your mind.

You strip your gun apart, each piece set neatly on the mattress as you sit cross-legged in the middle. Magazine here, slide there- the whole of your beloved glock laying pulled apart as you clean, fingers slippery and black as you wipe it down. You’re not sure how much time passes, absorbed in your task until you’re pulling the slide as there’s knock at your door.

The special knock.

You slide in a magazine, cocking the gun just in case as you peer out of the peephole.

 _Sam_.

He has one hand in his hair, the long strands disheveled and messy as he braces himself against the door jamb. His eyes are a little sullen, sleeplessness coloring his weary expression.

You brace yourself as best you can, sucking in a deep breath and tucking away your gun before swinging open the heavy door. The moment your eyes meet the breath whooshes out of you, stormy hazel eyes pulling at your heart. Your knees feel weak, arms heavy at your sides as your tongue turns to lead in your mouth.

“Hey,” he says lamely. It pulls you out of the trance enough to croak out your own greeting, opening the door further to let him in. His shoulder brushes your own as he enters, and you have to hold back the flood of emotion it brings. He’s so warm and smells so good- the scent much stronger and potent than the one lingering on his old shirt.

Swallowing, you shut the door only to turn and face Sam- much closer than you’d thought. He’s looking at you as though he’s puzzling something out, the same furrow between his brows as when he reads a particularly hard to decipher latin phrase.

“I don’t remember,” he says lowly. “I don’t remember what I said at all.” He worries his hands, calloused fingers smoothing over large palms.

You figured he wouldn’t remember much. The heavy slur of his words over the phone spoke of a truly awful hangover in the morning, the weight of his words far too heavy for him to speak sober.

“Sam, you- you called me. You said some things-”

“I’m sorry, oh god- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-” he breathes deep, turning to pace a little as he runs a hand roughly through his hair. “I shouldn’t have said-”

“Did you mean it, Sam?” He stops, hand dropping as he looks at you. He looks almost stricken, a little sadness seeping into beautiful eyes. “I need to know if you meant what you said, Sam. I’m tired. I’m so, so tired. I’ve been running and I can’t-” you swallow around the lump climbing into your throat. “If you didn’t mean it, then I can’t-”

He surges forward as tears streak down your cheeks, large hands warm and comforting at your shoulders. You close your eyes as the tears slip, cursing yourself for the way you crack in front of him.

“What did I say? Please, tell me what I said,” he pleads softly, thumbs smoothing back and forth over your shoulders.

You blink against the wetness, the soft puppy-like Winchester gazing worriedly at you. He’s too soft for all the shit he’s been through- his softness of heart so staggeringly beautiful that you want to just shatter and let him pick up the pieces of you. You want to trust him to pick you back up. Most of all you want him to-

“You said you loved me.”

He blinks a few times, the crease between his eyebrows disappearing. He softens before your eyes, shoulders sloping and fingers clinging to you. His silence rips at your heart, and you rip from his touch- you grab your duffle, shoving all of your stuff into it, more than ready to run from the heartache. Hell, that’s what you’ve been doing all this time. You want to run from the mortification, the crush of hopelessness, and the hazel-eyed man that you cared for like no other.

His hand settled over your arm, pausing your frantic packing. You don’t dare look at him though, his touch too tempting. “Sam,”

_“I love you.”_

Your startled eyes lock with his. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t love you. He can’t waltz into your life and make you love him, only to confess his own love for you after you’ve left over the phone while drunk. What kind of fucked up shit was that?

“You can’t Sam. You- you were drunk and-” And you wanted it to be true. You wanted it to be true so badly, and there was why it couldn’t be.

He turns you and grabs you by the shoulders, giving you an incredulous shake. “Every night I fell asleep to the thought of us and what I would say if you were there. Every morning I woke up to the loneliness of your absence. Don’t you dare suggest I don’t love you. That I never loved you.”

The fierce belief in his eyes was what sells you. You watch as he clings to you like a lifeline, like if he doesn’t hold on that you’ll disappear altogether.

“I was such an idiot. Dean told me to tell you- warned me that you wouldn’t be around forever. That one day you’d pack up your bags, and my chance would slip right through my fingers. I had my head up my ass. I thought I had time- but I didn’t and I lost you in the process. There’s no way I’m letting you slip away again. Not a chance in hell that I’m not gonna fight for you.”

His hands have slipped up to your face as he spoke, thumbs brushing away tears as he cradles your face. Your press his hand to your face, smaller hand dwarfed by his own. You tilt your head, pressing a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “I ran away because I love you, Sam. I didn’t think you could love me back- that you cared about me like that at all.”

You watch intently as he step closer, the heat and smell of him rolling over you. A breathless smile pulls at his lips, dimples framing the corners. “You love me too?”

“Yeah, you idiot,” you laugh, overwhelmed at the turn today had taken. You snag the front of his shirt, tugging a little. “ ‘M in love with you too.”

His smile is blindingly bright now, forehead coming to rest against your own as deft fingers trail across your face. His thumb catches on your bottom lip, and you press a sweet kiss to it as his soft eyes watch. The action spurs him forward, catching your lips with his own as he kisses you breathless. You feel everything- every emotion he pours into it, and you give back as good as you get. It’s intoxicating the way he kisses, all-consuming and fierce.

“Stay?” you ask breathlessly as you pull apart. “I still have the motel room another night. We can talk, or watch tv. Anything, really.” You’re clinging onto his shirt, swaying a little as his kiss has turned your knees to jelly. His arms around you hold you steady though, strong and firm around your waist.

He’s leaning into you, mischevious smile still on his lips. “Nowhere I’d rather be.”

* * *

That night you’re wrapped up in Sam’s t-shirt, the one he was wearing that day instead of the one tucked into your duffel. It’s a pleasant purple, the scent of Sam surrounding you as you lay in his arms. You’re tucked in tight to his muscular chest, hands pressed to the thick patch of hair on his chest and legs tangled between his own. You’re far too content to fall asleep- you’d dreamt many a night of this exact scenario, and now that you’re here your heart is overflowing.

Sam drifts a hand over your back, smoothing over the shirt you wear, soothing you. “Everything okay?” he asks, voice edged with sleep.

You smile into his chest, eyes fluttering closed as he continues his soothing touches. “Everything is perfect, Sammy.”


End file.
